Shadow of Myself
by Lucinda
Summary: now Slightly AU look at what could have been the beginnings of Sabertooth. Comic-verse, contains descriptions of pain & the Weapon X program.
1. Shadow of Myself

author: Lucinda

for mature readers due to assorted violence, abuse, and emotionally disturbed characters.

Disclaimer: I do not own anyone from Marvel Comics.

Distribution: please ask first.

Summary: just trying something a bit different. No idea if/how this would fit into comic cannon.

Arnold Creed had not been a father to inspire love from his offspring. His wife had regretted marrying him, and her fair skin had usually sported bruises from his hands. She was a soft voiced woman, her spirit battered and wounded, her golden hair the brightest thing about her. She had been weakened by too many births, all from her husband's desire to have a son in his own image. She had miscarried time after time, and had managed to produce four living children, three daughters, and a son as blond as she was, although he had the shape of his father's bones, and his father's odd yellow eyes. He had been named Victor.

Arnold had ruled his family harshly. Chores were always to be done, and a harsh beating would descend if they were not, no matter what the circumstance. Terrible weather, illness, nothing short of death would be a permissable excuse. When he had caught his son playing with a farm dog that belonging to one of the neighbors, he had beaten little Victor, telling him that if he permitted himself to care for miserable working beasts, he would only open himself to weakness. That summer, he made his son learn to hunt, hunting game for the family table, despite the fact that the boy was only nine.

His son would grow up to be a man, to be strong and independent. He would not permit his son to be some weak spined coward, afraid to face the realities of life. When game was scarce, and Victor could not find anything, his father would cuff him so hard that his ears rang, and shut him away with no supper. Hunger and violence were harsh teachers, almost as harsh as his father.

Victor learned to track game, to kill. He learned that his father would not tolerate him spending time with the other children outside of school lessons, so Victor grew up alone, depending only on himself. What pleasure he could find was in the wilderness, among trees and clearings and ponds, away from any human. The trees and the trickling waters and the hunt for prey, for some creature that he might kill in order to eat. He learned not to reach out to others, not to try to make friends with those his own age. He watched as his sisters married, moving as far from their father as possible. He watched as his mother died, attempting once again to give birth to a 'fitting heir' for his father, and Victor was the one who dug into the frost covered ground so that she could be buried, along with the dark haired boy-child she had birthed, too young to live. He was fifteen years old.

When his father attempted to make him responsible for the remainder of the chores, something snapped inside of Victor. He had learned his father's lessons well: be strong. Be ruthless. Never depend on another. Pain is nothing but an inconvenience.

When his father's fist struck him, he felt the rage, white hot and burning, rise inside of him. This time, he let it loose, and with a sound almost like a roar, he struck back, hitting his father. Hitting him back with the buried rage of years of beatings, the hunger of a boy locked into a shed with no supper in the winter, the pain of someone who'd just lost the only person that had shown him even a scrap of compassion.

His father was a beaten, quivering mass on the ground when sense returned. Arnold Creed wasn't dead, but he might as well have been to his son. Victor went into the house, packed his meager amount of clothing, and the rifle, along with the spare ammunition and the skinning knife. Arranging it into a bundle, he stepped out of the place that he had lived his entire life and smiled, an expression of little joy, more like the menacing baring of teeth of a wild beast.

"Goodbye, father."

He set out into the world, discovering that while he was only fifteen, the fact that he stood nearly six foot tall, and the emptiness of his eyes enabled him to pass for older. Where he went, he was assumed to be older, to have already achieved the full size and skill of a man. He spent some time as a fur trapper, before deciding that that was too much like before, to similar to what he had been.

Victor wanted to move on, to never again be forced to be the helpless boy that had lived in the home of Arnold Creed. Never again would he permit himself to be weak, to be dominated by someone.

He traveled, exploring and learning the land, and discovered another bit of his legacy from his father. He had a short temper, and was quick to anger. He was in brawl after brawl wherever he went, and it was only a matter of time before a man died at his hands, some wretched, miserable man that had tried to steal Victor's gun in the middle of the night.

Victor had looked down at the man, whose eyes had rolled in fear. The man's entrails had been exposed, and his blood poured out onto the floor, and Victor stood there, watching as the spark in the man's eyes faded, waiting. He had felt nothing, which had puzzled him slightly. He had caused a man to die, and all he had felt was a corner of his mind whispering that it was a poor shot, the man had died slowly. A shot to the heart or head and the death would have been quicker, less messy. After a bit of thought, he decided that it wasn't worth worrying. The man was dead, feeling something because of it wouldn't change that fact.

Word had spread that he had killed a would be thief, and that it hadn't bothered him. It was only a short time before he was approached, sometimes quietly, sometimes not, by people, sometimes angry, sometimes calculating. People that wanted another person removed, and were willing to pay generously if he could make this person... go away.

He became a killer for hire. He would be contacted, and he would be offered a sum of money to kill someone. He found it more profitable than killing game animals, more challenging sometimes to track men than beasts. He kept expecting that eventually, he would feel something when he killed. Some flicker of feeling, a reaction to their death beyond the occasional enjoyment of tracking a difficult quarry... but it never came.

He became well known, in certain circles. He hadn't married, although he had no objection to enjoying the purely temporary company of women. Wherever he went, there were assorted 'fallen women', the sort that didn't care who he was or what he did as long as he had money enough to pay for their time. Victor Creed didn't intend to marry, ever. He didn't intend to raise a family. Let the line of his father die with him... what would he know about kids anyhow?

No, he was far better off like this. He was a hired killer. He killed people simply because he enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the challenge of tracking someone down. He had learned new ways to kill, using the knife, or his bare hands, and enjoyed testing that knowledge against the few that fought against him.

There was something wrong inside of him, as if some part of a person had failed inside him, either not growing in his youth or withering away. He didn't care about people. What sort of future was there for a man that didn't care, couldn't care about people?

end part 1.

Time had ceased to hold any real significance to Victor Creed. He killed someone, he collected his money, or the remainder of the money owed him, and he would spend some of it. He drank extensively, although he never seemed to get drunk. He would visit brothels and individual whores, purchasing himself hours of physical release in their company, although he never became particularly attached to any of the women he visited. To the best of his knowledge, none of his visits had ever produced children, although he hadn't looked very hard. What would it matter if he had fathered a child with one of them? He had no intention of attempting to raise a family, any child of his would be better of with no father than a man like him.

He had only bought a small portion of land, a remote valley with cold, clear streams and thick stands of trees, a place that he could go to occasionally and pretend that the world of men didn't exist. It made him feel quiet inside, perhaps that was what people meant by peace? The seasons slipped by, becoming years. The years slipped into decades, and he had stopped keeping track of time beyond the season. His bones didn't creak when he moved, his eyes were still as sharp as a hawk's, his hair still untouched by white. If time didn't care enough to touch him, why should he care how much of it had passed?

But killing men was becoming too easy. There was little challenge, and the thrill that he had occasionally felt was slipping away, becoming little more than a memory. He had killed men all over this continent, had even traveled a few times to Europe to find someone. He'd picked up a few new languages, and discovered that the women the women overseas were much the same as the ones here, but.. there was no thrill there either.

There was a man sitting at his table, a man sitting stiffly upright, a subtle something in the way he sat that proclaimed him as military. More obviously, he looked as if he was waiting for someone. Victor wandered over, trying to figure out what had bought this man here, to this city, as miserable as any other, that he was currently using as a residence.

Sensing his approach, the man looked up. He had brown hair, touched with grey at the temples, and dark eyes, as dark as the eyes of the natives that Victor could remember trading furs with, long ago. He stood up, attempting to stand tall in front of the approaching man.

It was a futile effort. Victor hadn't known it when he'd left home, but he had not been finished growing. He had gained another foot, and a few more inches, and towered over everyone he'd met. His shoulders were broad, and rippled with muscle, enabling him to have a looming presence that seldom failed to intimidate. With an almost smile, he decided to make things slightly easier on this man. Military had approached him before, and as he recalled, they generally had interesting targets and paid well. As he sat, he gestured for the serving woman to bring him something to drink. He had a feeling that this talk would be interesting.

"Victor Creed?" The man was attempting to confirm that he had found the right person, something about his manner giving the impression that this was not business as usual. This would be something different.

"Yeah. Who's interested?" He accepted the bottle and glass from the woman, noting that it held scotch, and poured himself a generous drink.

"I represent the Canadian Special Forces. I'm here to ask you to serve your country. We have need of someone with your.. talents. It might be a bit difficult, and there would naturally be some elements of risk..."

He didn't know it, but those very words had firmly caught the interest of Creed. Difficult. Elements of risk. Those things had been lacking in his life for some time, and he was willing to take some regulation of his activities to get them back. "Right... special task force, not in the normal chain of command... detached and classified missions. Where do I sign?"

It was a very short time before he was being introduced to the rest of the gathered individuals, some of whom had worked together before. Everyone was considered to be top quality at what they did. There was even a woman, a dark eyed Indian woman called Fox, who was supposed to be an expert with communication systems. There was also a lean man who had a relaxed air, as if none of this were enough to worry him, named John Wraith, introduced as a pilot.

The others were fairly normal, and only one made a particularly strong impression on him. The guy who was in charge of the group, not the ultimate authority, just in charge of the few of them. His name was Major J. Logan, a short man with dark hair and pale blue eyes. He looked a bit older, maybe in his thirties, and had a slightly battered look that spoke of living harshly. They clashed immediately, both strong willed, stubborn, and temperamental. Despite the drastic difference in height, Logan wasn't in the least intimidated by Creed.

They were indeed sent on difficult missions. Missions in the borders of their country on occasion, but most often overseas. There was war brewing, and the covert operations were being used in many ways to try to slow down the German forces. They occasionally lost people, although Creed had to admit that Logan, whom he called 'Runt' in both mockery of his height and simply to annoy him, refused to leave a living team-mate behind. Not only was he stubborn, but he was good at what he did. They were all good at what they did, and the things required of them weren't pretty.

It had a gradual effect on them all, wearing away at any idea they had about the inerrant goodness of people, of the likelihood of governments playing fair, of laws being followed. As they were asked to do more things that could be best described as 'legally or ethically questionable', it began to erode their own respect for the law. Their own government, their own commanders were telling them that there were times when the law didn't matter, only the end result. That they weren't answerable to the law the way other people were.

Gradually, Victor Creed accepted that. The laws were made for other people, not for him. Not for the others like him. As long as he accomplished his goal, the legality of his methods didn't matter. After all, he had a box full of papers saying 'well done' and some commendations to back up that idea.

Now, he had just received new orders. He was being transferred from covert ops to a research base in the mountains. He was to pack his things and go immediately, and the facility that he was being transferred to was described as 'top secret'. He had the feeling that things would be changing again.

end part 2.

He had arrived at the facility, still trying to figure out what use he could be to a research facility. Did they need someone to field test a new weapon? He could do that. Possibly some new equipment needed tested for range or durability? He could do that as well. But this... there were antennae, and buildings, some long and low, others that rose up, looking like some sort of offices. Somehow, it looked to him like a place that did something a bit more... scientific than anything he would know, and he had a moment of uneasiness. What was he doing here? Why would he be assigned to a place like this?

He was shown in, and given a small but private room, located mostly underground. Supposedly, this type of structure would be less likely to be bombed, he was told. It didn't sit right with him, although he supposed that much of the facility would be difficult to see from the air, and he had no idea how deep some of the buildings might extend under the ground. He had a feeling like he was settling in for the winter... or being shut away. It didn't make sense to him. Surely he was of greater use out in the field, running missions, killing enemy diplomats and couriers, searching for spies... even assisting defectors to leave their home countries?

In the morning, he was taken to a doctor, and they began a series of extensive physical testing. He was weighed and measured, they drew vial after vial of his blood to run through an extensive list of tests. He was observed through a series of physical activities that tested how fast he could move, how much he could lift, under what circumstances could he see, and how much of his reaction time was dependent on sight or sound.

Something seemed odd about this to him. But... Victor had never been through traditional military training. Perhaps all the repetitive activity was normal? But... why so many doctors? Why wasn't he running through the activities with other people, so that their performances could be compared? What possible reason could they have for this?

A week after his arrival, he was brought in to the lab full of doctors again, and they gave him a couple injections, one saying that these were supposed to immunize him against a disease that he might encounter on missions overseas, something that was still new, still undergoing the final testing. They subjected him to the same intensive examination a few days later, as if they were trying to see if he was still in the same condition that he'd been in the week before, and that sat wrong with him as well. He wasn't certain, as he'd never had much experience with doctors, but this couldn't be the normal procedure, could it?

There were sounds in the building containing his room, sounds that told him this was something like barracks, although everyone wasn't in the same big area. He could hear noises, thuds and shuffling, occasional muffled words... the various noises that said he was not alone in this place. This building wasn't the only one of it's type, there could be a great many other people here, and he did see a good many others at mealtime. It seemed unusual, and vaguely wrong that he didn't see more of the other people, didn't have group exercises or pass more of them in the hallways.

Things settled into a pattern, every week, they would call him into the domain of the scientists, and they would inject him, normally with two or three vials of fluids, one a pale blue, the other an unhealthy yellow green that felt like it burned in his veins, and he could feel that one spreading through him... if there was a third, it was a pale, almost clear fluid that had a faint shimmer to it, like moonlight on frost. That one always felt cold, as if it was leaving him numb. Then they would send him off to run the courses.

The injections made him feel funny. Not just the burning or numbness that spread from the needles, but... they made his stomach heave and twist. He couldn't keep anything down the day that they gave him the shots, and his insides felt as if they were struggling, trying to escape for a few days afterwards. Watching the other people over meals, he realized that he wasn't the only one feeling similar effects, it looked as if everyone else was as well, on a staggered schedule. Different people were sickest on different days, and always the same day... at least, in relation to his own injection schedule.

There were no calendars here.

When things first started to change, he thought he was just getting used to being surrounded by so many people. That the mess hall felt less crowded because he was adjusting. But that didn't quite feel right, and he'd learned to listen to his instincts over his many years, so he started looking more carefully. It wasn't that he was simply adjusting to the barracks, some of the people were not there anymore. He didn't know if they had been reassigned or what, but... faces had vanished, like that man with the mismatched eyes, or the one with the wretched big blond mustache, or the guy with the gold front tooth that always joked about French whores.

He was feeling oddly unsettled. He had never felt as aware of the little sounds at night, or the many noises of the day. Conversations seemed to carry in the halls, and he found himself hearing more... there was some sort of research going on here. An effort to find ways of making the soldiers able to fight better, to make them stronger and more alert. These words... snatches of overheard conversation made him worry, gave him a feeling along his spine that there was trouble, danger, and he was caught firmly in the middle of it.

The doctors had just made another change. Every week, he was given the three injections, the pale blue one, the sickly green that burned, and the frost colored one that left his arm numb the rest of the day. Now, they had given him a bottle of what they called 'vitamin supplements', large dark red-brown pills that smelled almost metallic and tasted bitter. He was supposed to take one in the morning, and one in the evening. They seemed to help make the nausea of the injections lessen, so he took them. The exercises were becoming more intense, and now, he was seeing the others showing bruises and scrapes after their exercises.

Something was very wrong here... He kept wondering why hadn't he just left? He could vanish into the wilderness... live off the land. He'd done it before, lasted years that way. But something kept him here, and he wasn't quite sure what it was.

He was summoned into the medical area again, and as the injections were being brought over, Victor looked around. He thought he smelled something out of place, some expensive French cologne. Hadn't he killed someone that wore that stuff once? Some miserable little politician... There was a man leaning in the corner, dressed in civilian clothing, a pair of tan slacks, a shirt in patterned oranges, and wearing that damn cologne. How much of it had he put on? The cologne-man was looking around the lab, and then he looked at Vic, and Vic felt his head spin, and a sensation of pressure...

The next thing he knew, he was walking out of the lab, arms feeling the effects of the injections that he couldn't remember getting, the next week's vitamins clutched in one hand. His head was throbbing, as if he'd been slammed into a tree, and his ears were ringing... There was this hazy recollection of his mother, smiling at his as he stood there in the uniform of the army, father beaming at him with pride...

That wasn't right. Mother had died long ago. He'd buried her in the ground, and his father had never shown any approval, let alone pride in anything he'd ever done. Vic had left home long ago, he'd never seen the uniform... he was probably dead by now. Where had that memory come from? His mind slid away from that thought like feet skittering on ice, instead he found himself noticing that the mess hall, once crowded, looked a bit thin. Where had everyone gone, and why?

The next morning, the mess hall was crowded for breakfast. The stench of burned toast and frying bacon, cheap coffee and sizzling eggs filled the air, and he could smell a faintly sour scent that he couldn't quite place. Scattered bits of conversation that he heard - surely he hadn't heard things so easily before? These people had been in one of the other barracks before being transferred to this one, some excuse of a pest infestation in the other building. None of them really seemed to believe that there had been pests in the building, although nobody was willing to offer another explanation. Sitting at the table that he'd gotten in the habit of using was a familiar face - Logan.

"Runt. What are you doing here?" He wasn't exactly a friend, but Logan was a familiar face. Someone that he knew, someone that he could count on to be honest with him.

Logan looked at him, his eyes full of dismay and distrust and something else... He frowned at him, the words coming slowly, as if he didn't want to speak. "Creed. Didn't expect to see you here."

Something felt even more off about this base now, with the two barracks combined. Did Logan sense it as well? The short man had always seemed to have a gift for spotting traps and trouble spots... "What, you thought I'd still be out working?"

Logan nodded, his eyes thoughtful, as if searching through his memories. "Yeah, you were damned effective out there."

Something felt off, not right with those words or the tone of them. "And here I thought you considered me to be a bloodthirsty bastard."

Logan almost grinned, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Hell, you've been a trigger happy killer since we went through training together..."

Frowning, Logan whispered, as if to himself. "But we didn't go through training together. You were brought in separately, after my team lost Jack. You didn't train with me... you didn't even have basic training..."

His next words were at normal volume, but there was an intensity to his gaze, as if he was trying to communicate something, much like they'd done on the old missions. Logan felt that something was wrong here, and they should be alert. "You may be a trigger happy bastard, Creed, but I wouldn't have wished this place on even you. There's this annoying Frenchman who must be bathing in cologne... Andy or Anton or some such... I think he's a head-shrinker. Poke around inside and make you think things are different."

Things only got worse. Logan was right, this place was bad, dangerous in a way that wasn't supposed to happen on 'his side', not ever supposed to happen outside of nightmares. The injections continued, and the 'exercises' became more demanding, and were now performed while wearing some little devices to monitor him directly. The 'testing' included taking samples, not only of his blood, but from the marrow of his bones, from the fluids of his organs. They were done with brutal efficiency, and he could often hear the screams of others being 'tested'. People kept disappearing, and would occasionally drop in the middle of where they were, pale and shaky, going into convulsions and dying, or coughing up blood and bile in such quantities that he thought their insides were melting and being hurled out...

Sometimes, he couldn't remember what had happened, and then, he would catch a whiff of the mingled scent of blood and bile and fear, and it would come crashing back to him... other times, he would be remembering a stable, happy family, a history full of good cheer and difficult missions that just didn't quite feel right but he wasn't certain what should be there instead. Something was happening to him, playing with his memories, and he didn't know who, couldn't even trust what memories were real and what had been put there.

He couldn't remember his mother's face anymore, just an impression of a tired smile and a soft voice. He couldn't remember when he'd been born, where he'd lived, just a few scattered images of moving through trees with an old rifle, a tall man looming over him in a cellar, beating him... He remembered killing men, shooting them, snapping their necks, but he couldn't remember why anymore... Hadn't there been a reason? Some reason, anything?

There was no longer a pretense that all of this was a normal base, and only the barrack that he was in held anyone now, the others were dark and dim and smelled of dust and fading fear, old death... There was a bare dozen of them now, the victims, and he had the feeling that he had known who some of them were... the woman with dark eyes... the short man with dark hair... He had known them, before...

Each time they injected him with the drugs, it burned a bit longer. Each time, he felt a pressure inside his head that had to be from the man with that damned cologne... He reeked of it, of cologne and smugness and manipulation, the damn bastard. The 'tests' were more painful, they would carve into him, removing parts of him, bleeding him, poisoning him... and something, possibly a drug would keep him there, numb, his limbs uncooperative. He would be hauled back to his tiny room like a sack of meat and left there, bleeding and quivering on the floor, until the next time...

Or they would fit him into this thing, the next step from those little patches and wires, this boxy thing that went over his head and shut him away from the world, giving him blury, green lined pictures. They would want him to go out, to find something, to kill someone... It never felt quite real. But later, he would wake, in his cell, his muscles quivering from the drugs and exertion, his hands covered in blood.

Finally, he was dragged in again, having heard terrible screaming from the labs all night. They injected him again, with the green vial that burned, and another vial, a thick inky stuff that felt like it was squirming in his veins and made him feel like he was being pushed away. Faintly, he could hear them speaking... something about a metal... and his bones... his bones should take the metal now, properly fitted... experimental...

The rage was rising again, the burning rage that he'd felt once before... when had he felt this rage? The world dissolved into heat and red and pain and blood... Somewhere, something roared, almost but not quite sounding like a mountain lion.

He was in the snow. There were only a few bloodstained tatters of clothing over his body, and smears of half frozen, half dried blood that couldn't all be his own. There was snow, and pine trees, and in the distance, he could hear something howl, not quite sounding right to be a wolf. There was a patch on his shredded clothing, a patch with a name. Creed, Victor was there, in embroidered letters. That must be his name: Victor Creed. Who was he? He could glimpse fuzzy memories, the effort of trying to remember making his head throb and spin.

A man, standing among trees, shot down by his hand. Snapping the neck of another person... a man standing over him, angry... no no no won't try to make friends... A woman with dark eyes, frowning. A short man with dark hair. Nasty cologne over a smug man...

He was Victor Creed. He killed people. He was but a broken shadow of who he had once been, but that much he remembered. He was a killer.

end part 3.

end Shadow of Myself.


	2. Screams

Author: Lucinda

For mature readers due to violence

disclaimer: I do not own Vic Creed/Sabertooth. Marvel does.

distribution: please ask first.

note: this follows 'Shadow of Myself'.

He couldn't remember who he had been before, only the name Vic Creed, and the feeling that he had killed people. He'd discovered that it was something he could do quite easily. He was faster and stronger, and had these sharp claws... almost as if he wasn't really human like everyone else. If he wasn't human, what was he?

At somewhere over seven feet tall, with odd yellow eyes and sharp teeth and claws, with his shaggy mane of blondish hair, he had been mistaken for a strange and feral creature on several occasions. He had crept into a building once, a museum, and there had been all these... shaggy elephants.

Near them had been something else, something big and powerful, a hunter. A cat creature, big, powerful, with sharp claws and long teeth...the sign had called it a Sabertooth Tiger, and had said something about the ice age. He'd been fascinated. A big, lethal cat-hunter. This creature was like he was. He would use its name, Sabertooth.

The sabertooth would be a good namesake, not like naming him after a father... the idea stirred up an unpleasant feeling inside of him, and he could almost hear this voice, like a small boy, screaming: I'm sorry I didn't mean to I just forgot it won't happen again I'm sorry and this remembered noise, like leather hitting flesh, and it made his back twitch, and his stomach burned. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and he felt cooped up, felt the city closing in around him, confining, constricting... too many people, nowhere to hide... He had to get out of here.

He felt different once he was out in the country again. The voices, the half remembered child and the angry bellowing of the man with the leather strap had faded. He no longer felt as if the buildings and the smells of so many people were smothering him, the buildings about to fall over on him.

He felt better among the trees, with only the scents of nature, the trees, the stream, birds and animals, damp soil. He understood those scents, knew what every single one of them meant. The city was full of scents, harsh, strange scents that he didn't know and could barely make sense of. It was as if he was trying to find his way though a maze, and the signs made no sense to him. He wasn't a city boy.

Eventually, he moved on, and he found himself in another town, trying to buy himself a few odds and ends to take with him back into the woods. A nice straight razor so that he could shave, some soap, a package of salt. He was trying to be as patient as he could, although he was rapidly loosing his temper. Finally, he finished paying for his things, and put them into a sack, leaving the small store. He had the feeling that things were not done in this town... He could hear them following him, three young men.

They reeked of alcohol, which made his skin crawl, and he could smell a smoky fire, and some sort of stew, the memory of the fire and stew, could almost see the small room.

He could almost see the large man in the corner, sitting in a chair, smoking a cigar. Then, he was back in a small shed, the image blurring, almost visible in the present, and the man was looming over him, angry, shouting about something, the words garbled, indistinct. He could hear the boy crying again, crying out in pain.

One of the men attacked him, his fist connecting into his back just below the kidneys. They were all there, swarming him, trying to take him down like a group of wolves attacking a caribou. With a snarl, he ripped at them, and they began to scream and yell, their voices in the present loud, the scent of their fear and blood drowning out the shouts of the boy in his head. He didn't want to hear the boy. If their screams would silence those of the boy... well, someone should have taught them not to attack people in the night.

He hit them, slashed his claws over them, their screams and whimpers drowning out those of the shadow of memory of the small boy. The boy that something deep inside whispered that he had known. Whispered that he might have been that small boy. The idea made him angry, made him want to hit something, to make something suffer. These fools would do nicely. He hit them over and over, drowning the memory ghosts with their screams, with their blood. Beating them in place of the shadow figure in his memory of the large man. Hitting them to force the almost remembered screams away.

The air filled with screams, and the scents of fear, of blood and pain, a hint of urine and the scents of the fluids from the entrails, now slashed open under the darkness, like an augury of a dark and terrible future. Sabertooth had been here... and he had left the mark of his passing on the savaged remains of these foolish drunken bullies.

End Screams.


End file.
